


we do not love (we consume)

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, Domestic, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanessa never had a family. She'll take what she can get. </p><p>(<i>Even if it meant stealing a spot at the table</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we do not love (we consume)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [this poem](http://ophvnim.tumblr.com/post/105838079377/have-you-ever-bit-down-on-a-heart-try-it-next).
> 
> Lots of hugs and kisses to my darling [scorpiod](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod) for her extensive hand-holding and encouragement, as well as her thorough beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Vanessa never had a family.

She had a mother once. At least, she remembers vague imprints of a mother—shapes and scents, a woman whispering in her ear, saying her name as a comb dragged through her hair. It wasn’t until she was older that she found out that she wasn’t so much a woman, but a girl herself, disappeared into the care of her own parents and never came looking for the baby that got taken away. Vanessa’s father was a name on her birth certificate and a body still in a cell—narcotics, grand larceny, and endangerment of a child added up to more years than domestic violence and statutory rape would have gotten him, but they were in his file, the one she begged her case worker to let her see.

One foster home after another— _home_ , a word that felt like a misnomer, a comforting lie for kids too small to know the difference. A home wasn’t fleeting, it wasn’t not bothering to unpack because you could never know when you’d be shipped off to the next house.

Foster family was worse. The people she stayed with could never be family, no matter how much she wanted them to sometimes, with the good homes with clean rooms and food, the nice foster parents that never wanted to adopt her—or didn’t want them to with the worst ones, the overcrowded houses, the leering guardians who got too handsy as she grew up and filled out.

Group homes were purgatory for wayward kids like her, a waiting station between another temporary house, temporary false family—she learned not to look for camaraderie there and learned to watch her back; get a group of angry, lonely kids who've lost everything and starving for everything, and you can't expect them not to fight for every last scrap. Vanessa hated the group homes most of all.

Rosita was her only constant, she realizes through the years, her only sort of family—this stout, cuban woman with her dark skin and braided hair. Her sternness melted when Vanessa cried, tucking Vanessa against her side at thirteen when another family turned her away, stroking her hair back and murmuring words and phrases that didn’t make much sense—she called her _mija_ , the word sticking to her, familiar and cloying (it meant _daughter_ , she found out later, looking it up in the library; it felt cruel, Vanessa wasn’t anyone’s daughter). Rosita had her own family (two boys not much older than Vanessa, a husband in architecture—she had seen pictures, on her desk, in her wallet; the boys looked like her) and she couldn’t add Vanessa to the mix, couldn’t take her home, even if she wanted—and Vanessa never knew if she wanted.

But you can’t rely on other people, Vanessa learned—just yourself.

Money always felt good in her hands, even change, weighing her down by her pockets, solid and heavy; it could buy her what she needed—a full belly, the clothes on her back, a roof over her head, the freedom to make her own choices and do as she pleased. Money could buy her a place she could make a home for herself, money was her ticket out, no matter what she had to do to get it—lie, cheat, _steal_ ; it was all the same to her.

When she met Seth Gecko, she could tell he understood her—a sharp-toothed grin and a leaning in his too slim body as he hovered too close, caught on the cadence of her voice, at least, if he hadn’t been listening. His eyes sized her up like he was looking for weak spots until their eyes locked and Vanessa saw something mirrored back at her—a hunger, not easily sated, that grows in the marrow and poisons the blood when you grow up with nothing, nurturing a need to take back what’s been stolen, to take more than your fill. There are marks that line his skin, white and feather-light that disappear underneath his clothes and match her own, secrets badly kept.

Richie is better with secrets, a silent presence at Seth’s side, with his unnerving stare and emotions sealed up under his skin, reinforced with his pressed khakis and buttons that go all the way to his throat. She’s only seen him smile once or twice, only for Seth, the rest are small crooked smirks that show there’s something going behind his thick lensed glasses and his eyes that peer inside, but never reflect anything back. Vanessa couldn’t recognize it at first, the same in Richie that was in Seth, too deep inside, but he reveals himself slow, unraveling a single thread at a time—the framed diploma with his name hung in a corner, the way he counts his money then places the small bills on the outside of the bigger ones folded inside, the red circular welts on the back of his neck that sometimes his collar can’t hide, the pride he takes in unlocking things, breaking in, forging a path without a key, the way he stares at Seth at times, possessive and coveting all at once.

Richie’s hungry, too—but he has learned it’s better to hide it, then advertise it in his eyes, wear it on his sleeve.

Vanessa never had a brother, or a sister. She thought she’d been the lucky one when she saw siblings pulled apart, given to different families, losing each other through continuous moves, the system breaking down bonds without a thought—so she always felt better off, being alone. But watching Seth with Richie makes her ache, like a twisting deep in her gut. Loneliness can get to her from time to time and it’s an envy to see them side-by-side, never alone—a person to have their back and a person to stay that she hadn’t cared to want, but feels it now like a sudden thirst that seems impossible to quench, no matter how many glasses of water she downs. But touching what they are is next to impossible, like touching fire.

There’s a kind of kinship that comes with shared experiences and they’re all broken kids from broken homes, underneath their skins and maturing faces, but Vanessa is sure the Geckos wouldn’t call her kin—not sure what they would call her, the girl they drew close, but not enough, held outside their orbit around each other, always sitting standing leaning _too close_ if they could become one person, they would (a part of her sees them like that, an entity, a single unit, a packaged deal; it’s quiet and she pretends not to hear).

Vanessa’s always been a little greedy, but this is something else, to touch and dig a place for herself with them, or between them—she never could figure out which she wanted, or to take a piece for herself and run.

Money’s easier and uncomplicated and will keep her warm at night, when she lays down the cash for her heating bill.

It’s all she needs.

 

 

 

 

 

Vanessa hadn’t felt anything like it, the searing hot rush thrumming through her veins, heart pumping steady and hard, bruising from the inside—it hurt, but in a good way, the kind that makes toes curl and just this side of _too much_.

It’d be simple to say it felt like sex, the good kind, the kind that hits all the right spots in just the right way, but more—like a headrush, like going on a roller coaster for the first time and feeling that initial drop, steep and free-falling, alive like that stomach-in-your-throat feeling; it’s still buzzing under her skin, fluttering hard in her gut.

They had gotten away with it.

First major bank job and it’d had gone smooth, no one hurt and they’d run the cops off by going around the city twice before ditching the car, got the cash in a bag Seth had pushed into her hands that now bounces against her hip as she climbs the stairs. Third-floor walk-up, same place the Geckos have had since their Uncle had kicked them out: or Seth told her—he never seemed bitter about it, mouth curving like he thought they deserved it and Vanessa never could make sense of it.

Richie opens the door—a key this time, a simple turn of the lock, no need to get on his knees and open it by sound like he’d done with the safe, turning the dial to hear where the tumblers fell, what numbers unlocked it. (He’d been practicing for weeks, focused in a way Vanessa admired and envied, wanting to steal some of his work ethic for herself, watching his hands and hoping to mimic the movements, be at least as good as him, if she can’t be better.) Richie lets them inside, Seth following him through as she trails behind, Richie closing the door behind her, turning the locks back into place.

Vanessa stalls in the middle of their apartment—more like a studio, open and industrial space, living blurring into one another without walls; she could be standing in the living room, at the edge of the couch—and pulls the strap over her head, dropping the bag to the floor. They turn towards her, moving together like they had in the bank, like they always have since she met them; like they’re attached by a string no one can see, but makes Richie move when Seth tugs, their bodies falling into sync.

Seth is the one that starts it, mouth curving and splitting at the seam, revealing his teeth until he’s grinning, teeth bared as Richie’s mouth curls, muscles slow to work at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes reflect Seth’s—alight and sure when they stare at her, a giggle bubbling out of her throat before Seth laughs, full and thick, the sound shuddering down her spine and Richie smiles, a real smile, warm and broad.

“We actually fucking did it,” Seth breathes through hiccuping breaths, gasping through his laughter.

Richie nods, taking in a deep inhale, running a hand through his slick hair. “We did.”

Vanessa thinks it must have been the adrenaline still firing at her nerve-endings, hot under her skin, but she reaches for Seth ( _the first time she had, though the idea had been kicking around in her head for weeks, with Seth eyeing her like he wanted her, touching her like he already had her_ ) grabbing him around the back of the neck and hauling his mouth against hers. He laughs, once, against her lips before she snuffs it out when she kisses him.

Seth responds like a flint to kindling, wrapping an arm around her back, pulling her closer by the waist as his mouth opens against hers, his tongue dancing on the edge of hers—they kiss like she thought they might, deep and hard, colliding together as the tension between them breaks; her teeth tugging on his bottom lip as he smiles, breaking for breath. For a moment, she had forgotten Richie was there, but with a little distance, his presence invades the space she and Seth made up for themselves and she can feel his eyes on her, like the hair raising on the back of her neck.

Vanessa turns in Seth’s grip to meet Richie’s gaze—the blue as intense as ever, but she couldn’t make sense of his expression, features tense and loaded, yet he looks at them like he’s watching something else, heated and intimate. That’s Richie, simmering under the surface, beneath layers of skin like a lockbox ( _she wants to break in sometimes, get to know the Richie Seth knows--not everything, but something anything, pry away a piece of him that’s raw and exposed_ ).

It’s that feeling, itching up her spine, that she blames when she pulls away from Seth, who lets her go without a fight, hands dropping as she crosses the floor, and shoves herself on Richie, kissing him with her palms cupped around his face, fingers latched under his jaw, holding him in place. Richie is slow to kiss back, hands falling on her ribcage like he might push her back, but he holds her there, fingers settling in the in between spaces as his mouth twitches into movement, careful but practiced—like he knows what he’s doing, but unsure of how to apply it, testing. Richie makes a noise—a moan or a whimper, just a vibration against her mouth that she feels down to the soles of her feet—as she draws away and she wants to kiss him again, just to find out what it was, but she feels Seth near, hovering close.

There isn’t a spark of anger or jealousy in his eyes, not that she thought there would be. Maybe there should be, maybe there should be something more than his mouth slightly gaping with a hint of a smile at the corners and his eyes dark, heat emanating underneath, looking between them like he’s caught between disbelief and awe, eyebrow raised and head cocked to the side, mind working fast enough that Vanessa can see the action starting before he moves and Vanessa takes a step back from them both.

(She wonders what she wanted—if she wanted him to be mad, what kind of emotion had she hoped to stir by kissing Richie, kissing his brother in front of him—kissing them both, really; she hadn’t figured herself for that kind of girl, but maybe she didn’t know herself as well as she thought.)

There’s a flicker in Seth’s eyes as he watches her, a hint of a challenge, intense when their gazes lock until he turns away, advancing towards Richie. “Come here, brother,” Seth says, tugging on Richie’s tie.

Vanessa supposes it should be a surprise when Richie’s neck bows and Seth pushes up to meet him with his mouth—Seth’s smaller, not like she hadn’t noticed before, but all men seemed small to her—Seth against Richie could be consumed, disappear behind the breadth of his shoulders. Perhaps it’s meant to be, meant to shock her, a sick sort of test Seth decided to give her; a part of her wants to fail when her stomach drops and she feels like running out the door, but she stays, rooted in place because she can’t help the hold that creeps on her, the slow inevitability.

Watching them kiss is like a puzzle piece sliding into place—Vanessa can’t see the whole picture, not yet, but the border is beginning to take shape. Seth and Richie kiss like they move, like they work, like they do everything—that pull and pull, give-take dynamic of their well-oiled operation that makes people take notice, made her take notice.

( _too close_ , she heard people whisper, when she stepped into the same circuit, moving from Memphis to K.C. to walk away from a past she didn’t wanna remember anymore, listening to the muttered condemnations of their perceived sins from criminals whose hands are just as dirty; she hadn’t believed it, _stubborn to a fault_ , Rosita used to call her—she didn’t want to see it when they were the first to give her a chance, when so few had)

But she sees it now as Seth pulls with his hands in Richie’s hair, mussing his carefully combed back locks as Richie takes, bolder the way he kisses Seth than he did her, bending and bowing his neck to meet Seth’s mouth, hands gripped tight around his shirt collar. They kiss like they’ve forgotten she’s there—maybe they have, Seth groaning into Richie’s mouth as he tries to push himself closer, like they might start peeling away their layers of clothes with her as witness, playing the voyeur she’s not sure they invited.

(It’s not the first time she’s felt like this—on the outside, privy but not close enough to touch them and their silent looks, information passing between them more meaningful than the barbs and banter, eyes held, locked like their mouths now; maybe she had always known, they were a set that only came paired, and maybe she was just an unnecessary third wheel.)

Vanessa takes in a breath, then another—it hurts a little, too quick, like trying to breathe in the cold, lungs burning as her heart begins to pick up, pounding hard and heavy. Her stomach flips and churns, and Vanessa thinks she might be sick, if it weren’t for the heat, warm and pulsating low—watching them catches her between flight and stillness, the blood in her veins picking up with an uneasiness that never feels comfortable, but she can’t rip her eyes away, fascinated how they tangle together, their mouths progressing to slow and languid movements, wondering how many times they’ve done this. She bites down on her lip, her head going a bit light, queasy in her gut when she feels the heat flood between her legs, throbbing as a flush breaks out across her skin, imagining them in bed— _there’s only one_ , she notices, _just one_ —and looking at them now, Seth sucking on his brother’s bottom lip as Richie pushes Seth’s suit jacket from his shoulders.

Seth is the one who breaks first, yanking himself away from his brother like that was the only way, hands on Richie’s chest like he had to keep him back, both of them breathing heavy, chest expanding and falling as Vanessa’s eyes fall to their matching swollen mouths until Seth’s gaze catches on hers.

He doesn’t say it, but she hears it anyway— _stay or go, your choice_. “If you’re gonna walk out, you can take your share, we’re not gonna stop you. You earned it,” he says with a hand reaching out towards her, but his head gesturing to the bag with the score on the floor, an invitation alight in his eyes, open and hopeful as Seth Gecko can get with his jaw set, the realist in him preparing for the worst. Vanessa knew a thing or two about that.

Her mind tells her to go, get out now, _you don’t get tangled up in something without knowing there’s an escape route_.

But she started this, kissing Seth, then reaching for Richie, laying greedy hands on both of them, stealing kisses that didn’t belong to her.

It’s her gut makes her each out—accept because it’s not a bad deal, though she had hoped for something else; it’s better this way—one hand folding with Richie’s, the other lacing fingers with Seth, instincts moving her towards the bed, the two of them trailing behind her, letting themselves be led.

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you sure you want in on this?” Seth asks, like this is another job, a dangerous proposition—maybe it was, precarious, leaving her hanging off the edge, going to bed with the pair of them.

Vanessa lifts her chin, jaw set, meeting Seth's gaze with a shaky boldness that shudders up her spine, and sheds her blazer. “Are you?”

He smirks, exchanging a look with Richie, who sizes her up, mouth twitching as she drops her blazer on the floor.

Seth and Richie take off their jackets, their ties—all three of their shoes kicked off into a pile, the pieces of clothing building up on the floor. Without her shoes, Vanessa’s shorter than Richie, has to tip her head to look at his face, expression on lock as his fingers stall at the throat of his shirt. Vanessa’s own fingers struggle with the buttons on her blouse, shaking and trembling too much to get a decent hold, to work the small, round circles to get them through the holes in the silk. Seth has his own shirt half-off, tanned tops of his shoulders peeking out between his undershirt as he slides down his dress shirt, black flames on his shoulder, strong, bold ink she's seen before, caught glimpses of, but never seen fully revealed like this.

( _she wants to touch, trace the markings, but when she catches Richie’s gaze, she stops, his eyes bluer and harsh with warning_ )

Seth glances at her, catching her staring, a steady solid look makes her cheeks burn and undo another button to make his eyes turn away, so she can’t see the set of his jaw—Seth does turn, towards Richie, his hands curling and uncurling as he tilts his head up while Richie casts his eyes down. Seth breathes out a sign and reaches up.

“Jesus, brother, it’s not that difficult,” he says, batting Richie’s hands away and opening his shirt at the throat, continuing on down the line of buttons without pause. “You can get dressed, can’t you?”

“Yes, Seth,” Richie says, his tone flat, words quick and snipped. Vanessa expects him to push Seth away, do it himself, but he lets Seth continue, reaching instead for the hem of Seth’s undershirt, pushing it up his torso. “Maybe I just wanted you to undress me like a child.”

Richie’s hands slide up Seth’s back, following the path of his spine, exposing more of his skin to her as the thin cotton gets bunched up under his arms. Vanessa wonders if it’s on purpose, showing her this—Seth pulled close, Richie’s hands on him, _look but don’t touch_ —but Richie’s eyes are on Seth’s, fixed in a way she is sure they don’t see her at all.

It makes it easy to open the rest of the buttons on her shirt, letting the silk fall from her arms to the floor.

“I wouldn’t have to, if you hadn’t forgotten what buttons are for.” Vanessa can hear the grin in Seth’s voice, the light playful sound of his words as he lifts his arms and lets Richie pull of his undershirt, naked now to the edge of his trousers. His hands fall on Richie’s shoulders, under his shirt, as Seth leans close. ”Or maybe you know how much I like it.” He says it low, but loud enough for her to hear as he runs his palms down Richie’s arms, pushing his shirt off by the sleeves.

Vanessa pauses when her hands reach the front of her pants, but opens them because their eyes are off her, shoving them off her hips and letting them pool to her ankles, stepping once then twice, then kicking the pile to the side, leaving her down to her underwear and stockings.

Her gut twists watching them, a sick churn and a rush of heat mixing into a sensation that shudders over her skin, makes her head feel light—like she should look away, watching something that should stay behind closed doors, locked up away from decent eyes, but she can't take her eyes off them, too fascinated and curious, too drawn in—they pull each other’s clothes off like they’ve done it before, practiced, easy. Seth doesn’t have to tell Richie to lift his arms when he drags his undershirt up, Richie does it like Seth’s movement is part of his own, an extension of one another, one continuous action. They touch like they have magnets under their palms, attracting Seth’s hands to Richie’s chest, stroking down from his collarbone to his waist, Richie running his fingertips above Seth’s hips before they disappear in front of him—they open each other’s pants together, arms tangled and crossed, but unhindered, their heads bowed and close, like they might kiss again.

They don’t, and Vanessa doesn’t know how she feels, breath stuck in her throat hooked by an unfinished gasp. Seth reaches up to cup the side of Richie’s face, letting his pants fall on their own, his thumb stroking across his bottom lip—it gets caught in the corner of Richie’s mouth when Richie shifts his head, his eyes falling on hers, glassy and vague, not seeing her yet.

It’s when Seth turns, hands still on his brother’s face, following Richie’s gaze that she’s noticed again; they move together, shifting in sync, until they’re facing her, Seth’s hands dropping to his sides. Both of them looked different like this, stripped down to their briefs—matching, even under the suits. Seth shrunk without the bulk and structure of fabric, smaller than she realized when exposed to his skin, tan without lines all over his lean and sleek body, lined with definition. Somehow, Richie grew; he was smothered by his clothes, tucked into the pressed fabric, buttoned all the way up—without, his shoulders were broad and arms thick, less a boy and more a man, older and younger at the same time with his skin flushed pink and jaw set, straightening his spine as she looked, trying to hide even when he can’t.

Vanessa brought her eyes up and met theirs, brown and blue (they never looked much alike, but they were complementary, opposing, a matched set; it took looking to realize). She shivered when it occurred to her they were looking back, feeling more naked than them, though she wasn’t, still more cloth on her than the scraps of cotton around their hips, bulging at their fronts.

She had put on her underwear with care before the job, bottoms and bra first, like every day, but the stockings came after, rolled up to her thighs and caught in clips from the belt she wrapped around her waist—it felt like under armor, layers of ivory satin and lace to make her feel like something, someone older, someone who could put on her suit and hold her gun without trembling.

Now it felt like too much—she had seen tiny underwear in bright colors, the mesh instead of lace, tried on the bras that barely held her breasts; she wished she was wearing them now. Both of them keep staring and Vanessa wonders what they see when they look at her, old fashioned lingerie that covered rather than exposed, if she disappointed them looking like an old picture of someone’s grandmother instead of the women they had in film, in catalogues, in skin mags with scraps of sheer fabric and not much else.

Seth moves first, stepping across the floor as his hand reaches up, fingertips nudging under her chin, tilting her head up as his palm slide along her jaw, cupping as he smiles, an appraising look in his eyes as her lips part, gasping out at the contact. “Wow,” he breathes, a rush of awe flooding his tone, filling his voice with authenticity that’s hard to get from Seth, but he gives to her, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “You look like a goddamn pinup, babe.” He turns away, but his hand travels down her neck, around the curve of her breast until it stops at her waist, fingers hot on the gap of bare skin above her garter belt, trailing heat across her skin, her body, leaving her trembling and breathing shallow from his careful touches, his eyes making her push her thighs together. “What do you think, brother? Doesn’t she look that a fucking picture?”

Vanessa’s throat is tight when she looks toward Richie, easing under the heat of her skin when he moves closer, nodding despite his skin reddening from his cheeks to his collarbone, spreading out across his chest in splotches. “Bona fide pinup girl,” he says, careful in that low voice of his that feels a little dangerous, like it shouldn't belong to him when he looks like he does, blushing under his glasses, barely contained in his boyish underwear.

She breathes out, a shudder going through her that unlocks her limbs, loosens the muscles in her body. Vanessa lifts her hand to touch Richie’s shoulder, moving down to tuck around his elbow. “You want to help me out of it?” she asks, making eye contact with him, then looks to Seth; it feels bold, but she tries to own it, straightening her spine, giving them a grin, one that mimics Seth’s, lascivious and eager.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not like she hasn’t ever been undressed by someone else before—it’s not her first time, or her fifth, and she wonders if she should be ashamed of that, how many boys and men she let see her like this, bared, what they would think of her if they knew.

(She was fifteen the first time and he was a boy in her history class that hadn’t looked at her with pity or disgust, hadn’t asked her about home but rather what she liked to listen to, what she liked to watch, sitting beside her on the bus and talking her home past his own stop. It was awkward, both fumbling with clothes and only getting half out of them in the back of his parent’s car before he got his hands on her; she didn’t come but she liked the way he kissed her, like he wanted to keep kissing her. She moved on. Others hadn’t been as nice, torn at her clothes without apology, hadn’t deserved to put their hands on her and be given what she gave to them, left her exposed and vulnerable, walking home holding her clothes together and her shoes in her hand, gravel harsh on bare feet.)

The two sets of hands on her now left goosebumps on his skin, shivers down through her legs. Vanessa tried to keep touching them, a hand on both Seth and Richie to keep her grounded, clinging to their shoulders, keep her standing while her knees gave a little. Richie’s hands were larger, worked with more care as he opened her garter belt from the back, fingers pinching the hook and eyes until it slid loose—he tried to avoid touching her, but the edge of his callous fingers would graze her at the base of her spine. Seth worked quicker, touching her whenever he could, kissing the edge of her shoulder as he reached down to unhook her stockings, working in tandem with Richie, but whispering in her ear.

“One day I want to fuck you in these,” he says, rolling the top of one stocking down, fingertips trailing up her thigh.

It floods between her legs, throbbing as the thought flickers through her head, imagine what it might look like, what it might _feel_ like, biting her lip and feeling the skin of their shoulders under her nails, grip tightening on them as Richie pulls her garter belt away, unhooking her other stocking and dropping it on the floor. After it’s removed, Seth and Richie glance to each other—she watches them confer in silence and wants to say something, speak up and tell them what she wants ( _fuck me already_ , she thinks, but she isn’t sure she’s ready for that, not sure what she’s ready for, but aching for something— _touch me_ ), but Seth’s palm flattens against the small of her back before she can get her mouth to work, absorbing her shudders with warm fingers climbing the notches in her spine to the back of her bra.

Richie’s fingertips trace the elastic edge of her underwear around her waist, dipping underneath like accidents of his jittery hands, his fingers grazing her skin—he stares at her, his eyes pulling until she looks at him, meets his blown-black gaze, the blue receded to the edge of his pupils. “Is this okay?” he asks, thumb grazing her skin. “Can I?”

Vanessa swallows and nods, taking his hands in hers and curling his fingers under the waistband. “Take it off.”

Richie pulls as Vanessa lets his hands go, rolling her underwear down over his hips, going slow. Seth gets her bra open at the back, and the straps wilt down her shoulders as the cups fall away—Seth helps it the rest of the way off, pushing a strap down one arm as she slides out of the other.

Seth reaches for one of her breasts, cupping the weight of it in his palm. “Do you like your nipples touched?” he asks, thumb circling around the peak, but not touching, avoiding in a maddening way that makes her moan—soft at first, but louder when he teases closer, lets filth spill from his mouth. “Richie loves it when I touch his, goes fucking wild, especially when I bite them. Do you like to be bitten?”

Richie’s hands stutter over her hips and Vanessa turns to look at him, but finds him crouching at her feet, her underwear half-way down her ass when Richie stalls, the red burn bright over his cheekbones. “ _Seth_ ,” he breathes out.

“Did I lie, brother?” Seth squeezes her breast, gently in a way that makes her gasp as he inclines his head towards Richie. “Hurry it up, we’re waiting on you.”

Vanessa watches his jaw tighten, jump in his cheek as he pulls her underwear the rest of the way to her thighs, stalled by her stockings—his fingers move to working them down her legs, quick, but careful, like he knows the fabric is delicate, that it might run. He lifts one foot and tugs the stocking off, starting from the heel of her foot, fingertips tickling across the sole and she giggles—deepening into a groan when Seth presses on her nipple, rubbing in circles. Richie’s lips brush over her knee, leaving a strange brief kiss as he moves to her other stocking.

Richie pulls her underwear the rest of the way down afterwards and lets it fall to her ankles—she toes out, pushing her underwear away with her feet, not noticing how Richie had stayed crouched, flushing when she does, his eyes raking her down as he stares between her legs. She knows he can see everything, the dark red of her folds filled with blood, how wet she is and she waits for him to touch her, to feel her on his fingers, maybe taste her like Seth already had, ducking his head to flick her nipple with his tongue. But he does nothing but stare, hands useless at his sides until he shoots up onto his feet, taking a step back.

Seth draws away from her, too, when he notices Richie, moves closer to him with his hands raises, palms open and bare. “Hey, brother,” he says, voice quiet, tones gentling, liking he’s soothing a spooked horse. “Hey, it’s okay.” Richie steps nearer to him, looking between Seth and her, and for a moment, Vanessa forgets she’s naked now, watching them come together as Richie trembles under his skin in a way she hadn’t thought he was capable of—nerves raw and laid bare, and she wonders what had triggered it, worried it was her, guilty how she was glad to see he was capable of it, that he wasn't made completely of resolve and stone.

“Richie’s never been with a woman before,” Seth explains, holding Richie’s gaze he reaches out, touches him just to touch him, Seth’s hands on his brother as Richie’s head ducks, eyes cast down ( _never been with a woman before_ , it turns over in her head, how it makes sense, but also twists in her stomach like she swallowed something rotten, knowing what it means, that Richie had only ever been with his brother). “We tried once, but, well—”

“Seth,” Richie says, tone rough, the sound making Vanessa wince. “She doesn’t need to know that.” Vanessa tried to picture it, them trying this before, who the girl was, what went wrong, but she didn’t want to dwell, couldn’t, not when Richie’s eyes fixed on hers. “Can I touch you?” he asks, so soft and sincere she hadn’t wanted to question anymore, _why her, why now, why here_ —she grabs his wrist and uncurls his hand.

“Of course,” she tells him, “let me show you.” Vanessa fits his palm around her breast, teaching him how to hold it, the weight resting in his hand.

Richie gasps as Vanessa swallows hers back. Seth’s hand moves across Richie’s stomach, fingers pushing under the waistband of his underwear, grasping his cock as Seth pulls it out, Richie’s underwear caught around tops of his thighs. Richie’s thumb stutters over Vanessa’s nipple, his hand gripping hard—not painful or pinching, but the action forces a moan from her mouth, her spine arching forward into his grasp.

“Seth—” Richie hisses, teeth clenched around his brother’s name as his hips jerk; Seth gets his underwear further down his hips, far enough that the briefs fall the rest of the way down, pooled around Richie’s ankles.

Seth grins up at Richie, his eyes flashing across to hers. “Just trying to hurry this along, brother.”

Vanessa watches Seth’s fingers stroke down Richie’s length, grip loose and touch light—teasing but more to the gesture, a careful handling that follows through Seth dragging his fingers back up. Seth maps out the surface of Richie’s cock with just the tips of his fingers, circling around the head, blushing a dark red and leaking; Seth smears his fingers through it, streaking Richie’s cock with it so it shines.

Vanessa doesn’t know how to slow her heart, the rapid beating bruising up under her ribs, her throat tightening around her breath, the flow expanding in her chest cavity as her head goes light and her stomach gnarls up and flips. She holds tight to Richie’s wrist to keep herself grounded and finds comfort in the speed of his pulse and the way his stomach clenches in at her touch, the whine that breaks past his clenched jaw; he grips her back, eyes on hers with lashes lowered, an apology in the glance and she moves her hand to his.

“It’s okay,” she says, running her fingers over the back of Richie’s, holding his fixed gaze, magnified behind his glasses.

Richie nods and lifts his hand away from her breast—she comes close to pushing his hand back, gotten used to the feeling, wanting to know how more would feel, but Richie turns his hand in her grasp and hooks their fingers together as he moves, stepping out of his underwear around his feet as he brushes Seth’s hand away from his cock. He glances at her once, but she understands when he looks away, his free hand disappearing around Seth’s waist as Seth’s underwear slips down his hips. Seth looks between them, eyes a little wider, but unflustered, reaching for them, but Vanessa blocks his advances, putting herself where Richie has wanted her.

“Come on, let’s not waste time,” Vanessa says, grinning when she spreads her hand across Seth’s chest, shoving him back—her gut fluttering hard when he grins back, eyes lifted to hers.

Richie tugs his underwear off from behind and Seth’s fingers skid down his arm; he sucks in a breath when Richie gets his underwear off his hips to his thighs, dropping them down his legs. Richie runs his hand back over Seth’s hip, Vanessa following that path with her eyes, Seth’s heart quickening under her palm—it makes her mouth twist, shakes out some of her nerves, tapping out the rhythm with her fingertips—as Richie’s hand descends to wrap around his exposed cock.

Seth’s thicker than Richie, she notices, Richie longer and leaner but catching up with girth.

Richie can still get his hand around him, gripping hard and choking a moan from Seth’s throat, one Seth crushes out against her mouth. He gets a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her close, pressing her against him until she feels his skin on hers and Richie letting go of her hand, their shoulders bumping, both their bodies closing in on hers. She opens her mouth under Seth’s, lets his tongue run over hers, stroke across the roof of her mouth as he tries to break away, but she catches his bottom lip with her teeth, biting down when she trips over her feet, feels her world tilting forward as she falls.

Vanessa lands on the bed, half on top of Seth as she tugs her mouth back to avoid the impact of their teeth, breathing out a giggle that flutters through her chest, an odd giddiness that sneaks up on her. His arm wraps around her back to keep her close, her legs tangling with Richie’s and Seth’s winding through both of theirs. Richie’s hand is hot at the small of her back, landing there when Seth had yanked them forward, fingers spread out and nudging against her spine as he arches forward, covering the other half of Seth’s body, brushing quick kisses along Seth’s jaw like he’s not aware she can see—automatic reaction, like muscle memory as Seth’s knee hooks over Richie’s calf, thigh pressing up.

Seth turns from her to catch his brother’s mouth with his--the first kiss chaste, an accidental brush of their lips when Seth turned and Richie missed the edge of his jaw, Richie jolting back when he realizes, staring at Seth for a few panting breaths then kissing him again, harder and longer, with an open mouth and his tongue delving between Seth’s lips until Vanessa can hear him groan, feel his grip around her loosening. Her heart picks up, beating faster and heavier, tensing her chest as she watches them close up ( _getting used to it, the more she sees_ ). The sound hits first, slick squish of saliva, the low groans and soft moans, Seth whining when Richie sucks on his tongue, bites at his lip. She’s close enough to see, watch Richie’s mouth move on Seth’s, their tongues sliding together, how Seth’s hand looks gripping at the back of Richie’s head, his slick hair sticking out between Seth’s fingers.

Vanessa inhales deep, exhales slow, then wriggles free, surprised how easy Seth lets her go.

She scoots up to the head of the bed, tucking herself against the pillows, legs folded up to her chest, her arms wrapping around them, her chin resting off her knee and cast forward, toward the pair of them. With her absence, Richie had got Seth underneath him, rolled onto his back and stretched out across the bed, hands pinned above his head, their mouths never separating, practiced and natural the way they kiss, Seth opening up to Richie, his head falling back while his legs spread. Vanessa bites the inside of her cheek when she lets her gaze drift, sees how their cocks line up pressed between their stomachs, sees how Richie rocks his hips and Seth meets him, rubbing up against each other and smearing trails of slickness against their skins. Her face goes hot, her stomach clenching at the sight—the way it makes her cunt throb, wet and exposed to the air, making her more sensitive, more aware of the sensation, the need, the _want_.

It’s Seth that pushes Richie back, hand pulled free and spread out over Richie’s collarbone, holding him at a distance as Richie stares down at him, lips pink and swollen, eyes blown dark, huger under the thick lenses of his glasses. “Hey, hey,” Seth says, curling his other hand around the back of Richie’s neck. “There’s time enough for that later, brother.”

Seth twists underneath Richie, sliding free when Richie pushes himself up, rolling back and curling up on himself. Her eyes catch on Seth’s, her gaze dark and heated, staring at her with intent when he puts himself on his hands and knees, crawling up the bed towards her, movements slinky and not inelegant.

“Come here,” he says, reaching for her ankle, tugging her leg open by her foot, palm cupped around the heel. His hand climbs closer, fingers inching over her calf and hooking behind her knee. Vanessa lets him, drops her arms and loosens the tension in her legs, other knee dropping to the mattress as Seth pushes it away, pushing her legs apart. “Did you think you’d get away that easy?” He grins up at her, teeth bared as he strokes his fingertips up the inside of her thigh.

Her response gets caught in her throat, clenching around her words until she has to swallow them back down, shaking her head—Vanessa couldn’t tell him what she thought in pulling away, just that she needed the space, needed to breathe and collect herself, nervous and shaking like it was her first time. Her skin goes hot and tight when Seth rakes his gaze over her, spreads her legs more until she’s open for him, shuddering when the cool air hits her folds, when she realizes Richie can see too, watching from the end of the bed.

Vanessa’s hips jolt up when Seth touches her, stroking the pads of his fingers over her clit, down over her folds, edging inside of her, sucking in a sharp breath, breathing a soft moan when Seth circles around again. “Fuck,” he says, voice low and thick, brushing over her rough-hewn and warm. “Fuck, baby, you’ve got a pretty cunt.”

Seth tugs his hand away, but moves in close, resting his hand on her thigh, wet finger dampening her skin. Vanessa feels his breath first, exhaling out over her as her hands grip the blanket underneath, raising her hips to meet his mouth. He presses a kiss to her public bone, holds his mouth there like that’s all he wanted to do, but then she feels his tongue licking up in one long swipe, a white-hot pleasure shooting up through the soles of her feet, firing at her nerve endings. He groans as she whimpers, hips jerking up when he pulls away and all she wants is to put his mouth back, watching as he swipes his tongue along his lips, eyes on hers as he moves in close, leaning over her.

“You taste so fucking good,” he whispers in her ear, then drawing back on his heels.

Vanessa follows his line of vision when Seth turns his head and meets Richie’s gaze, feeling caught for a moment by his eyes, direct and intense, and she wants to pull her legs together, not used to the scrutiny—no one had ever wanted to look before, just touch, just take—or keep them open, reminding herself to be bold, keep up, let him look his fill, keep the red painted across his cheeks.

“Get over here.” Seth gestures to him and Richie picks himself up, moves when Seth calls, nears and settles himself at her feet--Seth hooks his hand around his elbow, tugging him closer until he’s resting against Vanessa’s open thigh. “I wanted you to see, brother, see what a pretty cunt Vanessa has.”

Vanessa feels herself start to laugh, but it gets caught in her throat, choked back as she trembles, listening to Seth talk with his way of making the words feel real, making her feel the heat in them and in his eyes as he reaches for her again, fingers nudging inside her, curling up and pressing for a breath, then pulling out, reaching his hand toward Richie. Her breath hitches when Seth touches his fingers to Richie’s mouth, painting his lips with her slickness until his tongue darts out to taste her from Seth’s fingers, mouth opening up to let Seth put them inside, closing down around them.

“Do you like how she tastes?” Seth asks as Richie sucks on his fingers, letting them go with a pop. “Do you want to put your mouth on her? I want to watch you make her come—think you can do that, brother? Make her come with your mouth?”

Richie nods, swallowing down, his Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat and Vanessa wants to reach out and touch it, but Richie replaces Seth between her legs, ducking his head. Seth settles at her side and pulls her against him, hands spread out across her ribs, mouth open against her shoulder, kissing up the slope until he reaches her neck, her ear.

“Richie’s good with his mouth, but he’s never tasted a woman before—”

“Because it’s always been you.” Richie sounds rough, voice thick and wrecked, his eyes flicking up, looking at Seth as he shifts, the mattress dipping beneath him. He tries a smile, small and twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Jackass.”

Seth makes a noise, low whine accented by a rumbling in her ear, his mouth curving against her neck. “Yeah, Richie, it’s only been me.”

(a warmth seeps into her chest from her gut, still twisting itself in knots—it’s a strange sensation, watching them and to be caught between the two, comfort and discomfort, fondness mixing with illness and all she can do is lean back against Seth and count beats of his heart between his breaths)

“Hey, hey,” Seth says, bringing her back with his hands stroking down her stomach and back up to her chest, a wet kiss behind her ear as his forehead coming to rest against her temple. “You wanna show him how? I want to see you show him.”

Richie looks at her, their eyes making contact, his large and attentive behind his glasses, posed like he’s caught between actions, waiting as his smile falters. Vanessa reaches for him, fingertips to his jaw, sliding along until his cheek is cupped in her hand, holding his face for a moment. Then she reaches for his glasses, careful when she plucks them from his face and folds them up.

“It might be hard to keep those on,” Vanessa says, rubbing the bridge of Richie’s nose as she passes his glasses to Seth, who stretches behind her and places them on the rickety side table.

Richie blinks slow, looking different without his glasses, vulnerable and younger ( _we’re all young_ , when she stops and thinks about it, _just kids_ —but she’s never felt like a kid, and maybe they never had either), last layer of defense taken away, the glasses he knows how to manipulate to deception or intensity gone; he opens his eyes and stares at her with eyes bare.

Vanessa curls her mouth, but it falls open as she gasps; Richie moves in and licks her in one broad swipe of his tongue, her hips rising at the contact.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she breathes, biting down on her lip as Seth laughs low and rough in her ear, a shudder working up her spine as her legs begin to tremble when Richie licks her again, quicker, a lighter flick of his tongue.

“That’s Richie for you,” Seth says, sliding his hand down her torso, goosebumps rising up in the wake of his touch, reaching for hers and pressing her palm against the back of Richie’s head. “Reacting when you least expect him to.” Seth curls her hand in Richie’s hair, the strands sticky-slick sliding through her fingers, the guidance new to her, not used to grabbing on there, always kept her hands to the sheets, but she likes the way Richie groans against her when she winds his hair around her fingers. “He likes his hair pulled, especially when he’s putting his mouth to use.”

Vanessa grips Richie’s hair tight when his tongue delves inside of her, circling around and pulling out, moving back to her clit—she moans, guttural and sharp when his mouth closes over her clit, sucking hard as he lifts his eyes to hers, the color bluer like this, groaning against her cunt when she yanks at his hair, Seth whispering filthy in her ear.

“He learns fast, doesn’t he? Always has, picks things up easy when he focuses.” Seth pulls his hand from hers, lets his drift down Richie’s neck, stroking over his shoulder and back. “Goddamn, buddy, do you hear the noises you’re making her make? I wish you could see what you look like. I fucking knew you’d look obscene between her thighs.”

Richie pulls away from her clit and Vanessa whimpers at the loss of contact, her hips following his mouth; the pressure of his tongue turning soft, gentle circling along her folds, licking her everywhere, in every crevice, alternating pressures, motions, and patterns, leaving her groaning, heels of her feet kicking at the mattress. It’s good in a way she hadn’t felt before, but maddening, never giving her enough of one sensation to let it build—like Richie was teasing her, drawing this out, but she hadn’t pegs him for the type, didn’t think he’d know how.

“You gotta tell him what you want, baby,” Seth says, pushing on Richie’s shoulder like he could tell, feel the frustration running tense through her body. Richie pulls up, looking at them both with his hair mussed, mouth and chin shining with wetness, eyes unfocused. “Or else he’s gonna try everything—right, brother?”

Richie looks to her, and Vanessa breathes in, watching him wait for instruction, eager and malleable, shedding the cool demeanor she had come to know and recognize as Richie, and giving her a new layer, a soft underbelly. She swallows. “Your fingers,” she says, reaching for his hand, drawing it against her until she feels the roughened pads stroke down her folds, nudging inside of her. “And your mouth like it was before, when you were sucking me.”

“You liked that?” Richie asks, slipping two of his fingers inside her, watches as her spine arches up, hips rolling to take his fingers deeper—he curls them, pressing up. “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” she says, letting out a soft cry when he pulls his fingers out, then pushes them back in, rubbing them up inside of her.

Richie’s mouth goes crooked, curing at one side, his eyes leaving hers to exchange a glance with Seth before he ducks down again, spreading out on the mattress on his stomach, closing his mouth over her clit, sucking when he thrusts his fingers back inside. “Quick,” Seth says, stroking Richie’s hair when she pulls, his other hand sliding up to cup her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple. “I told you.”

Vanessa rocks her hips against Richie’s mouth, onto his fingers as they pick up a rhythm, applying the right pressure where she needs it, the right friction. Richie still takes experimental deviations, nipping her clit in a way that makes her cry out and Seth curse in her ear, her knees shaking when he sucks her clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue under the hood, pressing on the nub that feels white-hot and too much, increasing the tension until it breaks. Richie curls his fingers hard up into her, circling his tongue over her clit and Seth pinches her nipple, mouth open on the edge of her shoulder, his hand clasped over the back of Richie’s neck, and she comes, falling apart between them, clenching down on Richie’s fingers as she pants out strangled noises, her body spasming until she falls limp against Seth.

Richie pulls away, rising up on his knees and falling back on his heels, his fingers sliding out of her as he raises the hand to his mouth, wiping it with the back of it as Vanessa watches him, hazy in the aftermath, eyes traveling down his body, noticing his cock again—still hard and leaking, red at the head.

“Do you want to fuck me, Richie?” Vanessa asks with her cunt throbbing, her voice light, reaching for him, wanting to push further, press ever closer, doesn't matter if she just came or not, wanting for the first time to know what he'd feel like inside of her—he lets her grab his arm, lets her tug him on top of her, pressing skin to skin. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he says, stroking her hair back from her sweaty brow with his clean hand, fitting his palm against the side of her face after. “Yeah, I do, but are you sure?”

Vanessa nods, sliding her hand from his arm to Richie’s shoulder.

“What about me?” Seth asks, a whine in his voice that should hurt, but Vanessa likes the sound of it, the way it rolls of his tongue with a panting breath.

She turns, resting their heads together, feeling his eyelashes brush her cheekbones as Seth blinks. “I want to see you fuck him,” Vanessa says, waits to hear Seth’s hitching breath, the quiet moan he doesn’t bite back. “Fuck Richie while he’s fucking me.” Richie makes a noise he muffles against her throat, burying his face under her chin.

Seth pulls back, puts a few inches of distance between them and now that Vanessa can see his whole face—she can see the brush of surprise, the hushed awe in his parted lips and reflecting back at her through his eyes—but it breaks, fractures down his features when he grins, shattering with the heat of his gaze scorching the rest away. “Whatever you want, dollface,” he says, laughing at the way her expression screws up, then leaning up to run his lips across her brow, moving lower to kiss her cheek. “Best you call the shots.”

Seth stretches back, sliding out from behind her, leaving her sinking into the pillows, taking up his space and sprawling out in the heat Seth left behind while Richie falls heavy on top of her—loose-limbed and relaxed like he had just come and not the other way around. Seth turns to the table he put Richie’s glasses on, pulling open the drawer and retrieving something from inside.

He lifts it up and shakes it her, a clear squeeze bottle, half-full with liquid. “Lube,” he says, in lieu of explanation, dropping it on the bed when he settles behind Richie.

“Oh,” Vanessa says, shifting her gaze between the bottle and Seth bending over Richie, mouth on his neck, his shoulder, Richie arching back to press against his touch. She thinks, _oh_ at the convenience, again at the single bed, the ease they have with each other—touching and being touched—and wonders not for the first time, how long this had been going on and why she hadn’t seen it before, why anyone hadn’t.

Richie rises up, hands pressing the mattress down, creating dips on either side of her body as Seth grabs for him, his hands at Richie’s waist stroking at the space beneath his ribs before gripping Richie’s hips. “Come here, brother,” Seth says, and Richie goes, moving where Seth tugs him, body malleable, moldable, Seth setting him into position—legs spread, inclined on his knees and fitted between her legs, Seth pressed up across his back.

Seth’s hands drift up Richie’s chest, fingers stroking over his nipples, mouth open and fixed at his neck, sucking. Richie pants out whimpers, soft moans that grow thicker, turn into groans and bites at his lips, his eyes glazed over when he looks at her, but he holds her gaze, their eyes locked as Seth’s hands travel back down his torso. “I’ve got you,” Seth whispers as Richie jerks forward, mouth falling open with a whine. “We’ll do this together.” Seth drops a kiss to Richie’s shoulder, his eyes flickering up to Vanessa’s. “Everything together, right, Richie?”

Richie nods. “Always together.”

Vanessa scoots closer, arching up when Seth presses Richie down, shaking and gasping when the head of his cock brushes her clit. She reaches between their bodies and grabs Richie’s cock—his skin hot under her fingers, sticky to the touch, soft down the shaft where her hand meets Seth’s. Vanessa runs her fingers over the back of Seth’s hand. “Let me help,” she says, gripping Richie’s cock above Seth’s hold and angles him down, spreading her thighs apart as she lifts her hips.

Richie enters her slow, sinking into her cunt, with Seth pushing from behind with his hips and Vanessa pulling, letting go finger by finger—Richie slides the rest of way inside with a snap of his hips, going deep and stretching her from the inside. It hits her like a sharp ache, veering towards too much, too soon, a white-hot pleasurable burn taking him to the hilt, their hips resting together, Richie cradled in between her thighs as she tries to breathe, her cunt trembling around him. All she manages is shallow pants, her hands coming to rest around his face, holding his head as he stares down at her like he doesn’t know what to make of her, like she’s not real, mouth slack and eyes open shudder-shock and bright blue.

“You feel good,” Vanessa says, trailing her thumb down the edge of his cheekbone. He leans into her hands, his own coming to rest at the top of her hips, fingertips trailing curves. “So good, Richie.”

She hears the sound of the cap flicking open, the squeeze of the bottle, the sound of slick fingers rubbing together, but it doesn’t hit her until Richie gasps, turning his head and moaning against her palm.

Vanessa turns his head back to meet his eyes with hers, gazes holding—his lips parted and jaw slack, hazy when he looks at her, face turning from pink to red, the skin of his cheeks burning under her palms. “What’s Seth doing to you?” she asks, voice small and thin, her breath strangled in her throat as she squeezes her thighs around him, feeling the small bursts of pleasure whenever he shifts—not against her, but back towards Seth, pulling. “Do you like what your brother is doing to you?”

Vanessa’s fingers drift to Richie’s mouth, stroking the plush curve of his bottom lip as her mind conjures Seth’s hand, his finger thick and blunt and square, how they must feel curling inside Richie, what it must look like, Seth’s hand working between his brother’s legs as Richie pushed back. She strokes Richie’s hair back, thumbs tracing the curve of his brow, touching him while Seth works him open, each hitch of his breath, each moan—the whining low in his throat becoming part hers as she takes part, holding him through, holding him inside.

“Tell me,” she says. All Richie can manage is a groan.

“He fucking loves this,” Seth answers instead, voice edged and ragged, a thickness that hits low in her gut, clenching around Richie’s cock. Seth drags his mouth across the slope of Richie’s shoulder, eliciting a shudder that shakes out against her when he nips at Richie’s throat. “Don’t you, brother? Love it when I take my time and get you all ready to take me, greedy for my fingers inside you.”

“Seth,” Richie whimpers. “ _Please_.”

Seth’s mouth twists, grinning against Richie’s shoulder like he’d won something. “I bet it feels even better being inside Vanessa while I’m fingering you, to have her all around you, hot and wet.” Seth’s tongue flicks out between his lips, licking up the curve of Richie’s neck, his eyes falling on hers, the pair of them exchanging glances. “Do you like being inside her cunt, brother?”

Richie makes a noise, deep and loud, a rumbling that burst from his mouth when she feels him shove deeper inside her, breathing out a yes as he trembles against her, head falling limp in her hands. Vanessa feels a whine work up her throat, Richie shifting again inside her—not thrusts, not yet, too shallow and quick, small movements that tease, that make her arch up and pull her legs up, tilting her hips to get at the right angle. Richie lowers his head, burying his face in her throat, mouth open and breathing out over her collarbone as her hands drop to his shoulders, holding on with his first thrust, one that feels doubled, hard and stuttering.

She wants to ask him what it feels like, what Seth feels like, what it’s like to fuck and be fucked, but she can’t form the words in her head and push them off her tongue—somewhere they get caught, stuck on the way he fills and stretches her, hits the sensitive places in her cunt that throb and aches.

Vanessa casts her eyes up and finds Seth looking back at her, eyes half-lidded and black, gazing like he’s inside her, too—bent in half and poured across Richie, pressed chest to his back as he moves, hands gripping Richie’s hips. Seth is fucking him, though she can’t see where they’re connected, where Seth thrusts inside him. Seth becomes an extension of Richie, rising up from his skin, fucking her just as much as Richie is, working in tandem like she’d seen before, bodies picking up a rhythm without speaking, just instinct—push, pull, Seth watching her face as Richie mouths at her throat, nipping and sucking, muffing noises as Seth’s hands move from Richie to her thighs, hooking under her knees to drawn them closer, Richie caught between them, forcing Richie deeper, hitching her breath as he stomach twists.

“You feel so fucking good, brother,” Seth whispers, his eyes pulling away from hers, mouth close to Richie’s ear, voice wrecked. “Love being inside you, like we’re made for it, born for it—fuck, Richie.” His thrusts quicken, feels them echoing inside her as Richie whines against her skin.

Richie doesn’t last long, jerking and groaning against her throat, thrusting deep as he comes inside her, hot and sticky—she doesn’t blame him, but he looks up, eyes raw over red cheeks as Seth presses kisses along his shoulder, gasping, _good boy, so good for me, so good for us_. Richie shudders between them and Vanessa arches forward with her head tilted up, pushing her mouth on Richie’s, kissing him; she pushes his hand between their bodies, nudging his fingers against her clit.

“Yeah, show him how to touch you,” Seth says, like he had seen it, like he had felt her grab for Richie’s hand. “Show him how to make you come.”

Vanessa groans against his mouth, listening to Seth’s voice, ragged and hoarse, the sound hitting in her gut as he thrusts into Richie, fucking him after he’d come (Richie doesn’t protest, just makes soft strangled noises that gasp out of his mouth on each panting breath, oversensitive and overstimulated). He grinds Richie’s cock against her, still hard inside her as she shows him how to touch her, stroke her clit the way she likes, gasping out whispered praises when his fingers begin to move, applying pressure and rubbing, leaning his forehead on hers.

“Come on, _fuck_ , come on,” Richie pants out, and Vanessa can’t tell who he meant it for—her or Seth, if it mattered at all.

(they’re both using him, Richie spent inside her and loose-limbed and fucked out, fucking themselves onto him and into him, keeping him between them—where he’d been the entire time, only she hadn’t been looking; _if she wanted Seth, she had to have Richie too_ )

Her heart beats rapidly and thunders against her ribs, blood pumping in her ear—for a few breaths, her mind breaks with her body and she moves with abandon, spine arching, back burning, hips rocking, hands reaching out and grabbing onto Seth’s arms, fingernails digging in, the sounds out of her mouth dragging her throat raw as the pressure-pleasure builds, growing sharp and white hot, and she wants, she wants, she wants—

—it crests, sending her over, crashing back into her body with a deep inhale, gasping out as she grounds herself in the feel of Richie’s mouth brushing kisses across her face as her cunt clenches down hard around him, spasming open and closed, her whole body left twitching in the aftermath, nerve-endings firing off as she shudders. She opens her eyes and meets Richie’s intense stare—breathing in, then out, cycling over again as he cups one hand around her cheek, the other brushing away strands of her hair that cling to her face.

Seth comes into focus over Richie’s shoulder, mouth grazing his skin but his eyes on her, blown-black and hazy, cheeks a deep red, hair curling and damp with sweat; he glows, she thinks, watching the corner of his lips curl and tug to the side, revealing his teeth. He grins like he had when they stood behind the bank in the alleyway, staring for a breath with the score in their hands, hot and dangerous and barely theirs—they still needed to run and make it out clear, safe and sound, but Seth knew then that they had won.

They won.

 

 

 

 

 

Vanessa wakes up slow, her awareness coming back to her in pieces. The sunlight turns her eyelids red, brighter when she blinks, warm white light until the world softens and she can see. An unfamiliar scent cloys at the back of her throat, rolls back and forth on her parched tongue—a mix of sweat and sex, the bodies pressed to hers, heavy and still sleeping; Seth snuffling in his sleep against her neck, Richie still and quiet, arm slung across her waist, fingers grazing Seth’s side, their naked skin sticking in places weighing her down, holding her to them.

(the night replays in her mind, fast-forwarding and rewinding, giving her snapshots and impressions—limbs, hands, and mouths—a puzzle she will have to build later to make sense of; how she got here, tucked between both Geckos, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest as she forces her lungs to work, to breathe)

She untangles herself with slow, careful movements, wriggling free from Seth’s sleep-grabbing hands and conscious not to wake Richie when she slides his arm back, scooting down the end of the bed and tip-toeing to the floor. It’s cold under her bare feet and the morning air chills her, her skin erupting in goose-pimples, shuddering at the way her nipples harden, the aches littering her body, triggered with each step—bruised across her skin and sore between her legs, damp and tacky.

( _a shower_ , she considers, _wash it away, the scent, the fluids, start fresh_ —but there’s still the tender marks on her hips, the sensitive spots on her throat where each of their mouths had been; her lips are still swollen from what started it all— _you kissed them both, remember_ )

Vanessa grabs a shirt from the floor—Richie’s, she thinks, wrapping it around her and shoving the sleeves up her arms, feeling the cotton slide below her ass and brush the tops of her thighs, and fishes in his jacket for his lighter and pack of cigarettes. She fills a clean glass with water from the tap, setting them both on the window ledge as she opens it. She winces at the creaking noise it makes, but slides through it onto the fire escape, inhaling deep the cool air (not clean or free—this city could never be that, too much blood and grime, a putrid smog that covers everything, especially here in the heart, in the slums, where bad only breeds badder), shivering in Richie’s thin dress shirt as she sits on the rod-iron stairs. Vanessa shoves the filter between her lips and cups the lighter, flicking the flame to life with her thumb, lighting the end.

It burns, taking the smoke into her lungs—it’s a good burn, one that settles her shakes and calms her nerves, turning her mind blank as she stares into the gray morning, her view of the underbelly of the city—a crooked maze of back alleys and leaning, decaying apartments, squashed in so close, everyone is breathing down your neck, living on top of you.

( _how thin are the walls, how many heard her—heard them?_ she wonders, thinking she should leave now, while everyone's still sleeping, no one to see her leave in last night’s wrinkled clothes with love bites on her neck; she only moves to fold her legs together, reaching for the glass of water, putting out the fire with one gulp, then two, the water filling her empty belly)

“Get inside,” Richie says, voice sudden and startling, rough in her ear as jolts her body, the cigarette dropping from her fingers, the water spilling over the ledge after it, the glass shattering on the pavement below.

Vanessa stays for a moment, turning her head to meet his gaze as her fists curl in her lap. She thinks about telling him, _I’m not Seth, I’m not your brother, I’m not yours_ and not crawling back through the window at his command, but she’s wrapped in his shirt, the smoke from his cigarettes still lingering on her breath ( _he’s been inside you_ —evidence still there, like a crime scene between her legs— _can’t erase that now_ ), and she goes, folding herself under until he grabs her arms and hoists her back inside, letting go only to slam the window shut behind her.

Her chin tips to look him in the eye when he moves around to her front, but Vanessa doesn’t move like she wants to—shove him back and collect her clothes, stomp out of the apartment before Seth wakes up and digs his claws into her—but she lets him touch her again, running his hands from her shoulders down her arms, rubbing heat back into her flesh. Richie doesn’t look anywhere else but her eyes, searching like she’s just as much of a puzzle to him as he is to her—doesn’t leer or glance as her exposed skin, at his shirt hanging open on her body.

“What were you thinking, huh?” he says, soft, like it was mostly to himself, pulling his hands from her arms to the buttons on the shirt, closing the cotton up around her. “It’s barely February.”

Richie’s eyes lower to his hands, head ducked to the task, leaning in close. Vanessa watches him, breathing in the sudden scent of him—unwashed and natural, musk she wants to press her face against—warming to the way his hands work down the front of his stolen shirt, meticulous and familiar, an ease settling in her limbs as she gazes at his face close up, the way his eyes move under his eyelids and lashes lowering, brushing the tops of his cheekbones.

(he has freckles, a faded dusting across his features she hadn’t taken note of before, complexion clear, pale and pink— _delicate_ , a strange word to describe Richie, but it conjures in her mind, marveling at his soft spots, his underbelly he’s only letting her glimpse now)

Richie smooths his shirt down her front—all buttoned up, all secure, a not-unwelcome gesture Vanessa rolls around in her head as she steps back, his eyes lifting to hers as she moves towards the table, curling on one of the chairs that had seen better days, her legs crossed and folded to her chest, arms around her calves. “I just needed to think, clear my head,” she says. “Figure some shit out.”

He stares as the moment stretches into minutes. She’s beginning to grow accustomed to the intense scrutiny, his expression smooth and blank, relaying nothing of what’s in his head, quiet with his eyes on hers as she stares back; she finds it easier than to let him look, his eyes heavy and itchy, bearing down like he can get underneath, see inside her skin. “Those are mine,” he says, gesturing to the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill.

“You want one?” she asks, feeling her cheeks pinch as she grins, reaches out and gets ahold of the pack—she tosses it at him, then his lighter, disappointed when he catches them, reflexes too quick, body on alert, his movements practiced. “I think we all could use one.”

Richie doesn’t scold her for stealing, doesn’t tell her not to do it again or curse her out, but he pulls out a cigarette, throwing the pack on the kitchen table as he pushes it filter-first into his mouth. The lighter joins the pack after Richie takes his first drag, smoke pouring out of his mouth, haloing around his head, the gray dimming the color of his eyes. The smoke relaxes his shoulders, now slumping like the rest of him, no longer the long firm line but slouching, elbow resting back against the counter. He dressed before he came after her, she noticed, a threadbare t-shirt and sweats covering him, like nudity might be too much, but she can see him like this, out of his pressed khakis and starched dress shirt, peeled back to another layer.

Vanessa glances away, his stare growing too intense to bear head-on, sharp like a blade, culling away layers of skin and serrated edges rubbing the rest of her raw. Her eyes fall on the bed and Seth curled up in the pile of rumpled blankets and sheets, still sleeping like he hadn’t heard them, hadn’t felt them leave, burrowing instead into the heat they left behind (her chest warms and aches at the sight--how much younger he looks, features smooth and open in the way only sleep can create, and her fingers itch to comb back his hair, her legs wanting to move, join him back in the bed).

“Seth does that,” Richie says, voice low and thick in her ear like his mouth was against it, close enough to breathe on her, but when she turns, he’s still across the room, flicking his cigarette into a coffee can. “Sleep like the fucking dead after sex, always has.”

Her stomach flips, the way he says it—blunt and casual and speaking from experience, a history she can’t begin to process and make sense of, one she’s not sure she can or should touch with her careful, trembling hands (there had been scars, brief glimpses when she looked at their bodies—white streaking their skins—and she felt the raised, knotty lines, the circular bumps on the back of Richie’s neck, a record of acts committed and she wonders how far it goes back, if someone twisted them before they had a chance to grow). She wants to ask— _when did it start, how did it happen, who touched who first_ —but thinking of the answers leave her shaking, a fear building at what she might uncover, what Richie might tell her.

“Why?” It chokes her when it comes out, and she winces at the rough sound, word blunt and thick.

He doesn’t look at her like she expects, meeting her stare in his unblinking, unsubmitting way—like a challenge, daring, but rather his gaze is drawn elsewhere, a line drawn from him to Seth’s prone body, breathing in and out, steady. Richie looks at Seth unguarded, his expression broken open, exposed more now than it had been the night before, touching the surface of raw honesty.

“I love him,” he says, turning and laying his eyes on hers—they’re red-rimmed and heavy, layers reflecting in the blue, like the ocean or a lake you can never tell the depth of until you dive in. “I don’t remember a time when I didn’t, when Seth wasn’t a part of me.”

“Oh,” she breathes, feeling clumsy and dumb, but it was all she could make, a recognition she heard him and nothing more, treading careful as her heart beats fast, her throat cracking and mouth dry—like walking through a minefield, or rubbing her hands over Richie’s exposed wounds, old and never healed, still bleeding. She doesn’t push or pry, lets the answer hang between them, knowing it was enough and not at all.

Vanessa unfurls from the chair, laying her feet against the cold linoleum as she stands on unsteady legs, thigh chafing and leaving her feeling itchy as her head goes light—needing to leave, put distance between them, Richie watching her like he might crawl inside her, try and puzzle her out.

“I should go,” she says, trying to map how long it would take for them to divide up the money, how long to get dressed, how long until she can make her escape, but the thought feels cruel and she wants take back what she said, looking at Richie, his expression causing an ache to rebound in her chest. “I mean, I should go shower. I’m, um, kind of a mess.”

“Oh,” he says, and for a moment, it steadies her—then he picks himself up, grabs a bowl from beside the sink, brushing past her when he disappears into the bathroom. Vanessa waits, without being told, listening to sounds of the faucet being turned on—she thinks about running, collecting her clothes and shoes, her share of the money, and escaping when his back is turned, but Richie comes back, a towel over his shoulder, a washcloth in his hand, soapy water sloshing around in the bowl he brought with him.

“Sit,” he orders, and she listens, on command, something that shudders through her, tucking itself in the back of her mind to make sense of later.

Richie gets to his knees at her feet, setting the bowl on the floor and dropping the washcloth in; he touches her shin, moving his fingers around the back of her calf, tentative, hand strained like he wants to apply more pressure, nudging her to move. “What are you doing?” Vanessa asks, swallowing back the tension in her throat.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and fights back the urge to kick him, her stomach twisting at how easy her body goes the other way, opening up for him like he said, letting him inch between her thighs as the breaths she draws in grow shallow. It’s not the first time he’s seen her like this, up close and exposed, but it feels different now that the adrenaline has worn off and the bright light of morning makes everything seem stark and too real. He plucks the washcloth from the bowl, wringing it out with one hand and brings it against her, excess water dripping down her thighs—it’s hot, texture rough in a way that startles, her hips jolting up, but Vanessa settles into it, the heat soothing against her aching parts as he washes away the dryness, the itching that had begun to build. He holds it, pressed against the apex of her thighs and it feels like an apology.

Richie begins to rub, careful at first, soft movements, washing away the evidence. “I do this for Seth sometimes, after—” Vanessa moans at the loss of contact when he draw away the cloth to rinse it out, gasping when he reapplies it, pressing firmer. “— _fuck_ ,” he breathes, hanging his head, his hand stilling. “We didn’t use anything. I didn’t think because— _goddamnit_.”

Vanessa blinks, taking a moment to process what he had already realized, and it hits in small pieces that lodge up under her chest, and comes with a strange lack of panic. “It’s okay,” she says, reaching to turn his face toward hers, hand cupping around his jaw. “It’s okay, I’ll figure it out. Go to the clinic or something, it’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go with you. You shouldn’t have to go alone,” he professes with a lingering sincerity, a possessiveness that undercoats his words with meaning, and it feels wrong in her ears, how sudden he’s flipped from careful consideration to a familiarity she hadn’t anticipated.

 _You’re not my boyfriend_ , she chokes back, thinking she might laugh, how she ended up here between them—Seth and Richie, when all she had done was flirt with Seth and hope, _maybe_.

 _I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself_ , she thinks, but she strokes his cheek, and considers for a moment letting him—or not going at all, letting the chips fall where they may, letting what might happen— _happen_.

 _It wouldn’t be so bad_ , holding Richie’s gaze as he looks up at her, kneeling at her feet, admiring the force of emotion that lies there as his brow furrows— _concern_ , for her, for the situation, that little bit of worry making his forehead crinkle; she thinks for a half-crazy second she might want it, end up tied to them by a bloodline, thrown in with their lot, give the world another Gecko, as if the two weren't bad enough.

( _family_ , it tastes bittersweet on her tongue, her hand going to her stomach and clutching at the possibility that had never been hers—no ties, no blood, just her alone and it breaks open in her chest and stings at her eyes, knowing it’s not the right time, not the right circumstance—not a good idea to build a family on shifting foundations and unsteady ground)

“It’s okay, really—I’m used to it,” she says, laughing; it shakes out of her throat, cracks on her tongue. She drops her hand from his face. “I really should get going, anyway. I’ve been here long enough.” Vanessa tries to get up, but Richie drops the washcloth, the sound of it going splat bouncing from the floor and hitting her ears, his wet hands pressing down on her thighs.

“You don’t have to go.” Richie inches closer, reaching up—his fingers cool on her chin, damp. “Stay,” Richie says, brushing her hair back off her face, with careful movements and soft touches, a graze she hardly feels, but his eyes tug at her insides, hook under her ribs and pull.

 _Stay_ , she couldn’t recall if anyone had ever asked her that.

(they hadn’t)

“Yeah,” Seth says, appearing from the bedroom, voice sleep-thick and yawning, walking out with his arms stretched over his head, naked from head-to-toe, not a scrap of shame she could see. “Stay. I’m making breakfast. You hungry?”

She nods, at the same time Richie chokes out a _starved_ , Seth grinning at both of them while he runs his hand through his mussed hair, the dark strands sticking up at odd angles.

 

 

 

 

 

Richie gives her a pair of pajama pants, too long for her at the legs and pooling around her feet, but tighter around her hips, her ass—it’s comfortable, like the t-shirt Seth gives her, loose around waist, worn-soft cotton that smells like him, even under the clean scent of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Vanessa starts to relax with the warm scents filling the tiny kitchen, the sharp scent of coffee brewing hitting her first, the caffeine in the air brushing away the last vestiges of sleep—the bacon after, eggs cooking in butter, pancakes bubbling on the griddle.

Seth barely dresses, pajama bottoms and bare feet, shirt left in a drawer. He stands at the stove with his pants riding low on his hips, muscles in his back moving under his skin, the black ink flames creeping up his arm, moving as he shifts the bacon around in the pan, scrambling the eggs, flipping the pancakes over.

Richie glances over his shoulder at her from his spot at the counter, slicing oranges (the only job Seth would allow him, the only way to keep his hands busy after he kept swatting Richie’s fingers from dipping into the pancake batter, from stealing half-cooked bacon from the frying pan), relaxed. A smile plays at his lips, glasses on but his eyes lacking edge, the calculation, meeting hers with a wash of warmth that makes her shudder, prickling at the back of her neck.

She considers asking again if they need any help, but the thought feels limp, noncommittal as the bacon piles up on the paper-towel lined plate, pancake stacks growing taller. Seth had turned her down when she asked earlier, pulling out one of the mismatched chairs at the small kitchen table and telling her to sit, his hands cupping her shoulders when she did as he leaned in close, his mouth hovering close to her ear— _relax_ , he whispered, giving her shoulders and squeeze and letting her go. She needs something to do with her hands, needs to get up from the chair, stretch herself into the space they had created (the space they had given her).

Vanessa stands up, wincing when the chair legs squeal against the scuffed up linoleum. “You guys got any juice?” she asks, watching as their heads turn together in tandem, two pairs of eyes on hers, the spooky way they do that without thinking.

“Fridge,” Seth and Richie say at the same time, Richie without a gesture, just a nod of his head, while Seth’s arm swings up, his finger pointing.

Vanessa walks across the cool floor and opens the door to their refrigerator—it’s cleaner inside than she expected between the two of them, sparse pickings, but arranged neatly, easy to grab the carton of orange juice and close the door. She turns to find Richie offering her a glass, her body jerking back, startled. “Jesus,” she says, resting her hand over her heart, the tempo rapid.

“Sorry,” Richie says, holding her gaze, but never looking shamed, despite the pinkening of his cheeks.

Vanessa takes the offered glass. “It’s alright, just learn not to sneak up on people,” she says, as Seth barks a laugh from the stove, loud and fond, his grin catching in the corner of her eye as she hears him breathe _fat chance of that_ out under his breath. She raises the glass. “Thanks for this.”

Richie nods and moves away, and she turns toward the tiny strip of counter edging next to the refrigerator, resting the glass on the surface as she twists the cap off the orange juice carton, tipping and pouring its contents into the glass. “Don’t like coffee?” Seth asks her as she twists the cap back on, following his gaze to the full coffee pot.

Vanessa shakes her head, moving back toward the refrigerator and opening the door to return the carton, a bit lighter. “It’s too early for coffee.” Seth and Richie watch her close the door again, disbelief turning their expressions matching, glancing at each other, then back at her as she picks up her glass from the counter.

She can feel their eyes on her as she tips into her mouth, like x-ray vision, like she's some new curious thing to be examined and inspected, to be made sense of. The corners of Vanessa's mouth curls as she sips, tasting the sudden sharp bitterness, smoothing out into something sweeter as she pours it over her tongue, stinging at the back of her dry throat.

She waits for one of them to say something, a snappy comment from Seth or a dry observation from Richie, but Seth shrugs, turning back to the rest of the bacon, the last of the pancakes. Vanessa thinks she should go back to her chair, wait from afar— _relax_ shuddering down her spine—but there’s a steadying in hovering close, feeling the coolness of the linoleum under her feet, the heat from the stove, grease thick in the air, the smell permeated enough that she can taste it, salt dancing on her tongue. It feels real, standing close enough to brush Seth’s arm with her fingers, black flames dancing as he flips a pancake, smelling Seth under the familiar scents of breakfast, his body heat warming with the stove.

Richie scoops up the orange slices and transfers them from the cutting board to a plate, dropping the board and the knife in the sink on his way across the kitchen to place the oranges on the table. He travels back, his feet following the same line, but Richie diverts, running himself up behind Seth, hands falling on his ass, gripping and grabbing up handfuls of flesh, casual yet possessive, all too familiar. Seth doesn’t jerk or jump, just lets out a shuddering breath, laughing deep in his throat, mouth curving as he leans back, chin tipping up exposing his neck, marked and bruised, for Richie’s mouth to travel over his mottled skin, licking and teeth scraping. Vanessa watches the display with her breath catching in her tightening through, a flush creeping from her chest to her cheeks, gut twisting—but there’s a bursting under her ribs too, like fondness, like affection building in her veins, no longer sick at the sight, even in the cold light of morning.

(they’re trusting her with this, with them—like an unlocking, shoving their secrets into her hands for safekeeping, letting her in, letting her see what no one else sees, giving her the last puzzle piece that begins to explain it all, everything she couldn’t make sense of until now)

Seth twists from Richie’s grasp, shoving him back with a hand on his sternum, holding as their heads bowed together. “Later, brother,” he says, arching up to brush his mouth against Richie’s, then dragging himself away, Richie grinning at his back.

His gaze turns on hers, eyes alight; his expression highlighting the similarities between the two Geckos. “You should sit down,” he says, reaching above Seth and pulling down three mis-matching but clean plates. “Breakfast is done.”

Vanessa picks herself away from the counter, listening to Richie's words, her feet moving on his command and sliding back into her chair. Seth divides the food into even shares on to each of the three plates and Vanessa can see the generous piles on the two Richie carries over to the table, laying them down on the empty places on either side of her, his fingers traveling across the back of her shoulders, stroking down her arm as he comes to sit beside her.

Seth brings her plate and lays it down in front of her. “Eat up,” he says, bending down to press his lips to her brow, her temple, his hand running over her hair, cupping the back of her neck, the imprint of his lips still lingers, and she reddens a little at his easy touches, wanting to lean into them like a lonely stray, starved for affection. But Seth slides away, taking the free seat on her opposite side.

The food is hot and generous, invading her nose and making her mouth water, syrup already liberally applied to the pancakes, dripping down the edge of her short stack. Vanessa grabs for the fork by her right hand and digs in, mouth opening around her first bite (eggs, yellow and fluffy, resting in clumps on the tongs of the fork). She moans, soft and low, at the taste, Seth watching her with his mouth quirked to the side as he chews, a pride flickering in his eyes as he brings another bite to his mouth.

They eat in quiet, words sparing between bites and breaths—Seth and Richie eat quick, like her, focusing on the chewing and swallowing of food, the only noise the scratching of forks on plates. It’s comfortable, freeing, knowing there’s not need to perform, no need to slow down, no need to pretend like her stomach isn’t rumbling and she’s beginning to quiet it, sate it.

(she wonders when they had starved, when food was so scarce they picked up the habit of scarfing up whatever was laid down in front of them, for fear it would disappear, a habit of survival, forward thinking and proactiveness, but it’s hard to shake when you’re not worrying about when your next meal is, drawing looks in restaurants, eating like it might be the last time for a while)

Their plates soon empty and Seth offers seconds, but she shakes her head—she is full, the feeling verging beyond her stomach, filling her chest cavity, warm and comfortable, a yawn stretching up her throat. _I should go_ , she thinks, _take my share and take off_ , eyes feeling heavy, glancing at the door but making no move for it. Seth and Richie stay with her at the table, the quiet thick.

Vanessa rests the pads of her fingers on the underside of Seth's wrist, pressing in against the flutter of his pulse, running them up his forearm in jagged patterns, following the path of the black flames. "Why'd you get this?" she asks, wincing at her own bluntness, her fingers stuttering across his skin—she hadn't meant to ask that, meant to ask where or when, but she knew there was a story here, inked in Seth's skin and she wanted it.

( _she wanted everything, now they've given her an inch, but she would take a little at a time, a secret or two, stories passed down to her, one at a time, until they became a part of her history too_ )

Seth pulls his eyes away from her gaze and turns to look at Richie, glance loaded and heavy, both of them holding the stare like they do sometimes, silent conversations passing between them that Vanessa will never understand, doesn't know the language, and couldn't begin to learn. Seth breaks the look, his eyes falling back on hers, softer, gaze warming the brown under his lashes.

"I'll tell you later," he says, like a promise, grabbing up her hand in his, folding their fingers together. Richie watches them, his gaze a weighty presence on the slope of her neck, itching across her skin, the rounded edge of his knuckles brushing the back of her other hand like an electric shock.

Vanessa bites back the urge to say _I don't believe you_ —promises are flimsy, translucent gusts drifting in the wind easily torn and broken, first lesson she ever learned, _never trust promises_.

But the way he smiles at her, slight and crooked, more genuine than any grin he'd shot her—makes her believe that this time, it just might stick.

**Author's Note:**

> While this is not exactly a 100% pre-series fic as canon stands, obviously (I deem it more of an AU of my own headcanon of what that might have been), it's a _possible_ pre-series fic for a different sort of future.
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://richiesseth.tumblr.com)!


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